'It's like this, Bunny Boy, if you walk up to an oak tree or a bloody elm or something -you know, one of those big bastards- one with a thick, heavy trunk with giant roots that grow deep in the soil and great branches that are covered in leaves, right, and you walk up to it and give the tree a shake, well, what happens?' Bunny drives the Punto super-slow through the Wellborne estate in Portslade and looks at the customer list Geoffrey has given him. The towers cast long, dark shadows across the courtyard and Bunny hunches down in the Punto and peers up through the front windscreen searching for the flat with the corresponding number. 'I really don't know, Dad,' says Bunny Junior, listening intently, retaining the information and knowing, in time, he will probably understand. 'Well, nothing bloody happens, of course!' says Bunny and slows the Punto to a halt. 'You can stand there shaking it till the cows come home and all that will happen is your arms will get tired. Right?' The boy's attention is diverted momentarily by three youths that perch on the back of a wooden bench, smoking. Depersonalized in their massive jeans and their oversized sneakers, the ends of their cigarettes flare from deep within the dark recesses of their hoods and Bunny Junior slips on his shades and shrinks down in his seat. 'Right, Dad,' he says. Bunny rolls down the window, stick his head out and looks up at the flats. 'Jesus! They could put fucking numbers on the doors, at least,' he says. Then he adjusts the rear-view mirror and looks at his reflection and manipulates the waxed curlicue of hair that sits on his forehead like the horn of some mythological beast. 'But if you go up to a skinny, dry, fucked-up little tree, with a withered trunk and a few leaves clinging on for dear life, and you put your hands around it and shake the shit out of it -as we say in the trade- those bloody leaves will come flying off! Yeah?' 'OK, Dad,' says the boy, and he watches as one of the youths pulls back the edge of his hood and reveals a white hockey mask with a human skull printed on it. 'Now, the big oak tree is the rich bastard, right, and the skinny tree is the poor cunt who hasn't got any money. Are you with me?' Bunny Junior nods. 'Now, that sounds easier than it actually is, Bunny Boy. Do you want to know why?' 'OK, Dad.' 'Because every fucking bastard and his dog has got hold of the little tree and is shaking it for all that it's worth -the government, the bloody landlord, the lottery they don't have a chance in hell of winning, the council, their bloody exes, their hundred snotty-nosed brats running around because they are too bloody stupid to exercise a bit of self-control, all the useless shit they see on TV, fucking Tesco, parking fines, insurance on this and insurance on that, the boozer, the fruit machines, the bookies -every bastard and his three-legged, one-eyed, pox-ridden dog are shaking this little tree,' says Bunny, clamping his hands together and making like he is throttling someone. 'So what do you go and do, Dad? says Bunny Junior. 'Well, you've got to have something they think they need, you know, above all else.' 'And what's that, Dad?' 'Hope... you know... the dream. You've got to sell them the dream.' 'And what's the dream, Dad?' 'What's the dream?' Bunny Junior sees his father adjust his tie, then reach into the back seat of the Punto and grab his sample case. He unlocks it, checks its contents, and closes it again. He looks at Bunny Junior, squares his shoulders, opens the door to the Punto, points his thumb at his chest and says, 'Me.' Nick Cave

This is not a blog.

It's a personal challenge.

I've tried to write a blog since I heard about blogs. I started one about art, one about random thoughts, one with funny links... Nothing lasted more than a couple of weeks. Until I discovered Posterous. I thought it was genius... and then it shut down and I only noticed it when it was too late to recover anything. Now I've fallen in love with Squarespace, and I've decided to try again, hoping neither my discipline nor technology will give up this time.